Beautiful Friendship
by Ha-Hee Prime
Summary: Mirage and Skywarp: All the joys of running the Cybertronian Al-Anon with a partner you can't stand. A companion drabble to "Transformation" and "Entr'acte"


A/N: This is another scene that hit the cutting room floor in the process of writing Act 5 of _Transformation_. I love it, though, so I touched it up here and there, and am now presenting it to you. There are references in here to things from _Transformation_ and_Entr'acte_, but I'm sure you'll flounder along all right even if you haven't read those stories yet.

**A Beautiful Friendship**

"Frag _me!"_ Skywarp hissed out a long, tired sigh, and threw himself down onto a long, well-scuffed bench.

Mirage inched along the seat toward the farther end. He tried not to be too obvious in doing so, but he was still unable to completely suppress his strong dislike for the boorish Seeker. Everything about the black jet grated on his nerves. The blue and white Autobot sat straight-backed and proper, as if to emphasize just how comparatively uncouth was black Seeker's spraddle-legged sprawl.

Skywarp noticed. Grinning to himself, he stretched out further, so that he now took up three or four mechs' worth of space. Mirage was running out of room. But moving to another bench would have set a bad example; so he remained, gritting his dentals, as the last few addicts called out sullen farewells and shuffled out of the long, bare room.

"It's orders, and it's for your own damn good, so don't gripe about it to me!" the black jet called after the stragglers.

"Yeah, yeah," retorted Blitzwing. "Your own little license to deal. Very nice for you."

For an instant, Skywarp's finger's clenched, and it seemed like the black Seeker might rise to the insult. But he forced his face into a beatific smile, and replied, "Same time next week, Blitzy? Since you seem to be needing it so often lately, and all..."

The triple-changer snarled and slammed a fist into the door-frame, but Astrotrain grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him forward; and the two mechs left without making further reply.

After the door had closed behind them, Skywarp put his hands behind his head, crossed an ankle-joint over a knee, and leaned back in exaggerated contentment. "Alone at last," he sighed, with a smirk at Mirage.

As he did once every nanoklik or so, Mirage wondered what had possessed him to volunteer for this job. He'd thought to settle the irksome life-debt he owed the black Seeker for saving him during the cataclysm that had accompanied the Ceasefire. But he was starting to wonder if justice was demanding too much in repayment.

He might grumble against it, but the debt held him here, whether he thought it fair or not. Mirage had always kept his word, had always, _always_ paid his debts. Everything he was doing here, he told himself, no matter how demeaning, was helping to restore the tattered shreds of his honor... albeit in a very roundabout way. It was worth it, Mirage repeated silently, trying to convince himself. Soon he would be free. And freedom was worth any price. Most of the time.

Skywarp lolled his head back until it was nearly upside-down, stretched an arm out behind him, and flipped the switch that shut down the one remaining pleasure machine. The familiar thrumming wound down gradually into blessed silence.

"Only three overloads today," the black jet mumbled unnecessarily. "That's something, I guess. May Primus have mercy upon us poor sinners."

Mirage released a hiss of compressed air through his dentals, and relaxed a servo or two. It was always hardest when the machines were online. He'd reformatted all the internal programming he could; but the anticipatory thrill still raced through him whenever he felt the hum of the big chargers vibrating up through the floor. Primus, it had felt so slaggin' _good..._

_No,_ he reminded himself. _Never again. It's not worth it._ He shot a sidelong glance at his disreputable companion. _Besides,_ he thought wryly, _You'd have to ask that big sneering lug to help hook you in... _Mirage imagined the morsels of processor-melting 'humor' that the tall Decepticon would no doubt feel duty-bound to share in such a situation, and shuddered. No. Anything but that. He'd die first. He scooched away, onto the very last inch of bench.

"I see what you're doing over there," the big black jet drawled, although his head was flopped so far back that his neck cabling looked ready to pop loose, and his optics were dark. He waggled a finger in a teasing way that always infuriated Mirage. "I know you can't stand me. And I don't give a scrap. You shouldn't-a volunteered for this aft-end assignment if you weren't willing to deal with a few blots on your sacred escutcheon." He lifted his head, and leered at the Autobot aristocrat. "Burdens of having a family crest, eh?"

He reached down, and began coiling one of the long black power cables almost caressingly around his arm. "_Slag_, I miss this..." he murmured.

"Want me to hook you in?" Mirage spat, his cultured voice harsher than he usually allowed it to get. He'd resented the dig about his heritage. "We're all craving it, Skywarp. So just keep your mouth shut."

Mirage's comm beeped at him, and Trailbreaker's voice came over the connection, sounding tinny and small. _You doin' OK?_ he asked pointedly.

_Yeah_, Mirage returned, resigned but grateful. _Still holding out_. He sighed. _You have no idea how lucky you are to have never gotten hooked into this sludge._

_Oh believe me, I'm getting a few inklings,_ the black Autobot responded dryly. _Comm me if you need a watchful optic on you, pal. I'm just over on the south side, helping with the digging there._

_Right._ Mirage was grateful that Trailbreaker was willing to be so vigilant in his behalf. But even so, sometimes it was annoying as slag. "Pal," for instance. What kind of a word was that to call a Tower mech? He flicked the switch, silencing his comm.

"That's what they all want us to do." The growl came from the other end of the bench, startling Mirage.

"What? Who?" Mirage spoke more sharply than he normally would have done, since the unexpected outburst had almost sent him falling from his precarious perch. "What the slag are you mumbling about, Skywarp?"

"Keepin' our mouths shut! What'd you think I meant?" came the short-tempered reply. "You said it first, Mr. Shiny-shafts, so don't sit there gaping at me like a short-circuiting drone!"

It took Mirage a moment, distracted as he had been by the exchange with Trailbreaker, to find and replay their exchange of a few moments ago. But it was apparent that Skywarp's slow, thuggish processor had continued undeviating from its earlier course. Mirage sniffed fastidiously. "Feel free to enlighten me," he retorted, waving a hand airily.

Skywarp snarled. "It's obviously what our Glorious Leaders expect us to do," he grumbled. "_Don't complain. Don't question. Be happy._ Yeah," he snorted disgustedly. "I feel so fraggin' _happy_ right now. Don't you?"

He scowled at Mirage. "Here we are, _happily_ standing guard over the source of all our addiction, choking on enough filth to pollute the Pit itself as we try to help detoxify our fellow addicts – who, I might add, are also all very _happy _about being cut off..." He chuffed, and spun the end of the cable around in a desultory circle. "The joys of peacetime. I might just overload on 'em right here. So much _fun_."

In spite of himself, the Autobot found himself in agreement with the outspoken mech. He gave Skywarp a brief nod, and raised one optic ridge in mirthless amusement. It was no secret that Mirage had always hated the war. But he'd been disappointed with the Ceasefire, too. It had not brought about the miraculous return of all the enjoyable diversions he had dreamily remembered from his early life, as he had somehow hoped it would. It was extraordinarily frustrating, but it now seemed that it was going to take the mechs of Cybertron almost as long to clean up the mess they had made of their planet – and of their own lives – as it had taken them to slag it all up in the first place. "Such is life," he shrugged. "Do you want to be reassigned?"

"Slag, no!" barked the black jet. "You think I'd like grubbing around out there with all the other grease-grunts? I'm a _Seeker_, fraggit. And I'd like to think that still _means_ something... Although," he spat, "What with Megatron's new agenda, it probably means exactly scrap.

"I tell you right now," he said turning to Mirage and jabbing a finger at him, "If I find our dear Leader's been foolin' around with Prime while he's tellin' us we can't use these Smelter-loving contraptions any more... Well, I'll go to the Pit trying to tear his head off, that's all there is to it." He snorted irreverently. "'Spark-bond' my _aft!_ Ol' Megsie probably just wanted somebody to stroke his cables, and none of us was good enough for 'im."

Mirage's processor balked at the mental images. "I don't think Prime would-" He blinked. "Elita would _kill_-"

"Yeah, yeah," Skywarp interrupted rudely. "That's what everyone says." He stood abruptly. Just to prove he could, he teleported over to the shelves lining one wall, and took up one of the vials of luminous, reddish liquid that the machines sent coursing through the ducts of mechs who hooked into them. "Can't jack it any more," he said thoughtfully. "But maybe I can still drink it..." He threw back his head, and upended the flask. Then he made a face, and spat. "Nasty," he commented. "Too bad."

Skywarp sent an appraising look across at his Autobot partner, one brow-ridge raised in speculation. After a moment, he said thoughtfully, "I've got some decent high-grade at my quarters." He jerked his head in the direction of the exit. "C'mon."

Mirage was halfway through formulating a reply calculated to refuse the unwanted invitation firmly, without aggravating the Seeker, when the black jet interrupted his thoughts.

"It's not like you have anything better to do," Skywarp pointed out, knowing that the truth of that statement would gall the aristocratic Autobot. The tall jet grinned. "Do you need to ask your minder's permission first?" he needled.

"No," Mirage shot back. "But shouldn't you be asking Sixshot if you're permitted to have visitors before you invite me over?" He was gratified to see that the shot had stung. The six-changer was the unofficial gun which Megatron held to the heads of both leaders of the pleasure-chamber decommissioning project, the ever-present threat that kept them honest. And Skywarp especially hated it.

"Frag you!" he growled, throwing a rude hand-gesture in the Autobot's direction. Scowling, he held up an arm and barked into his communicator. "Six, this is Warp. Mirage and I are going over to my place for a nice cube of high-grade. Just wanted you to know there won't be any funny business." He glared at Mirage, and added, "Feel free to join us if you like." He slapped his comm closed, and lifted his chin in challenge. "Well," he demanded, voice shaking only slightly after having been so dangerously impertinent to the Decepticons' living weapon,"You coming with me or not?"

Mirage wasn't sure why, but he rose. Maybe he was bored. Maybe he was suicidal. Maybe he just wanted to give peace a chance. Whatever his reasons, he shrugged elegantly, and gave the tall Seeker a curt nod. "I'd like to see what your definition of 'decent high-grade' is, Skywarp," he nettled. "It should be amusing."

"Slagging Tower mechs," the black jet grumbled. "I'd like to know the last time you had anything that wasn't better'n sludge." He snorted. "I bet you don't even remember what real high-grade tastes like."

The blue and white Autobot did not deign to acknowledge the remark with a reply.

Skywarp grimaced, and held out an arm. "Shall we?" he asked in a mocking imitation of Mirage's courtly mannerisms.

Mirage balked. "Can't we just dri- get there the usual way?" he floundered.

Skywarp scoffed. "Why? Teleporting's easier. Besides," he grinned nastily, "It's not like it's your first time, or anything..."

Mirage scowled. "Fine. Just try not to crash _into_ the high-grade when we get there. That'd be a shame." He put his hand on the Decepticon's arm, and tried not to cringe as the world imploded in a flash of purple light.

He stumbled a little on reentry, but recovered quickly. What threw him was looking up into the implacable, masked face of Sixshot. The huge mech was sitting stoically on a square table in the middle of Skywarp's cluttered chambers, as all the available chairs had proven too small. Judging from the pile of debris beside him on the floor, the six-changer seemed to have cleared his spot using the efficient one-arm swipe method.

"How- How did you get in here?" the black jet gabbled.

"Megatron gave me your key-codes," the tall mech replied calmly. "You did say I was invited."

Skywarp stood blinking up at the six-changer, for once in his life finding nothing to say.

Mirage remained stock-still, cycling air for a moment as he fought the urge to go invisible. Then he grinned. "'Warp," he said, "Sixshot..." A laugh pushed up from his vocalizer as he slapped first one, then the other heartily on the back. "I believe this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship!"


End file.
